Where is my ball?
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Loads Of Fluff! There's sleepy Johnlock and then Sherlock's taken John's Benedict Cumberbatch signed ball and John is a little angry.


It was a rainy morning, the streets were overtly noisy from the rains and eerily quiet from the lack of people. It was a rare sight to look out of 221B's window and not find anyone. No shady looking homeless person stealing glances at their window, no police cars blaring outside. 221B was quiet too for the noisiest person in Baker Street had decided that 10 am in the morning was the perfect time to go to bed, or to the couch, more like it.

Sherlock was sleeping with his head at an awkward angle on the armrest, one leg stretched straight and the other reaching out of the couch, touching the coffee table. A small part of his back was exposed because his blue robe and grey shirt had decided that the angle wasn't good enough for them to cover him. His hair, that had a mind of its own (wonder what that would be like!) lay uncombed and tousled on his forehead. The long and lanky figure of a guy who claimed to find sleep and breathing boring and was now gently snoring with his cupid bowed lips open in a perfect heart shape looked adorable to John who had just woken up and was now silently looking at his flatmate with affection in his eyes.

However, that affection evaporated soon enough when he found his _Private Box_ in the kitchen, its contents all over the table. It didn't seem as if anything was missing, except... John quickly scanned every item on the kitchen table, praying to almighty for the missing thing to not be the one he thought it was. _Anything but that, please, Sherlock._It was absent. As if in mockery, a picture of his 12 year old self being pinned on to the couch and Harry laughing at the camera emerged from under a petri dish and a nerve in his temple started throbbing dangerously.

Was it so wrong to ask for privacy every once in a while? Sherlock already wore his t-shirts, his jumper, his gloves and other things he had a sneaking suspicion of but which he would not like to be confirmed. Every vein in his head had been thoroughly dissected by the detective and kept apart for display and further analysis at leisure. Was it overtly ambitious of him to think that a box labelled **PRIVATE**would be left alone? In John's opinion, it wasn't. This was encroachment on his personal space. Even thinking about the phrase 'personal space' made John shake his head a little, now even his mind was making fun of him.

"Sherlock…" John shook Sherlock slightly, trying hard not to be mesmerized by that gentle sleeping form and egging the anger in his head on to his voice. Lost cause. When Sherlock turned around, he draped his arm over John's neck and smiled sleepily, rubbing his eyes , not knowing the effect it was having over John. He pulled John closer and nestled his nose in his jumper, stretching his long legs and purring contently like a cat.

John decided that now was not the time to fight, after all, his love for the man winning over his anger and scratched Sherlock behind his ears knowing fully well the effect that this action had over the detective. Sherlock's body tensed up at first and then he started purring even deeply, smiling like a child and brushing his lips against John's neck, not kissing but gently teasing the skin.

"Wake up, sleepy. If you want to sleep more, go to the bedroom. You'll get a sprain in your neck if you continue sleeping like this," John said, ruffling Sherlock's hair. Sherlock didn't budge at first and if his rhythmic breathing was saying anything, the man had gone back to sleep in his lover's arms. But then he stirred a little and backed into the couch, making a small space in front of him, enough for another person, a very special person, to fit comfortably.

It was things like these that made john go weak in the knees. Sherlock loved snuggling and spooning. It was so unlike anything John had imagined Sherlock to be, the first time he had snuggled with the detective, he had been so taken aback that he had giggled for a full fifteen minutes with the taller man in his arms and used phrases like _cute _and _adorable_, something he had never associated with Sherlock.

John smiled helplessly and ran his fingers into his lover's hair. Sherlock took his arm and tugged at his jumper, making a sleepy annoyed face. Shrugging and still smiling, John slid into the empty space with his back towards Sherlock and felt long arms envelop him in a warm embrace. The curly head gently lifted off the couch and settled against his neck, warm breath grazing him as Sherlock Holmes drifted off and so did John Watson.

The afternoon was entirely washed up in a half-hearted sun and slippery streets, it almost seemed banal as compared to the slightly curled form of John Watson who was sleeping on the couch. His breath came in short sighs, he could have been talking to Sherlock in whispers after they had just made love, he could have been kissing Sherlock to sleep or he could have been sleeping himself, like he was now.

Sherlock was always rendered speechless at the way John's chest heaved up and down under his mocha coloured jumper, how his mouth was slightly open and asking to be kissed, how he slept curled up with his own arms around him, wanting to be held and protected.

John was stirring now, he turned around and hugged the couch, making a small noise of disapproval on not finding Sherlock there. Sherlock merely observed him, how his sleepy expression changed to wakefulness, his blue eyes shone in the dark room and found Sherlock's.

"When did you wake up?" he asked, cracking his knuckles and stretching his body, his toes barely touching the couch's end. He yawned and then smiled at how Sherlock's eyes were following the movements his body made. There was something utterly perplexing, yet lovable about the man that befuddled John to no end.

Initially, in their relationship, Sherlock had tried, in vain, to find out the things that attracted him towards John. He had come out with a long list that included John's midnight blue eyes, the warmth his body borrowed from his eyes and how he had to stand on his toes to kiss Sherlock. But none of these things explained the way Sherlock's heart behaved when he looked at John. He knew that if he took all these quirks out of John's personality, he would still be hopelessly in love with the man. He didn't know why and for once, he was satisfied at not knowing.

"I woke up an hour ago, you were sleeping too peacefully to be disturbed," Sherlock said, tearing his eyes off John and focussing on the newspaper. He loved John, John knew it too but Sherlock didn't want to look like a lovestruck teenage girl. John still planted a kiss on his temple and made to go towards the kitchen to make some tea.

There was a sound of deep sighing and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that it was directed towards him. John stomped out and blurted, "Where is my ball!" Though he assumed a politely curious look, Sherlock's lips twitched a little, "Shouldn't that be in plural, John. Although it would be quite a conundrum then," Sherlock said, still not looking up from his newspaper.

He could feel John shake a little, obviously missing the humour. "I…there was a ball in my _private _box that I can't find anymore. And while you tend to not respect my boundaries at all, let me tell you that it was a signed ball. And I would very much like to have it back." John finished, gnashing his teeth and climbed up the stairs to go into his room. Sherlock heard the door bang in his wake and muffled another smile. He picked up his phone and messaged John,

_What ball is this? – SH_

_The one you took, that one. – JW_

_I took no ball of yours. Why is it special anyways? – SH_

_It was signed by someone I admire a lot. I want it back! – JW_

Sherlock could almost hear John bang his fist on the bed and see him roll his eyes. He smiled and typed.

_Who signed it? – SH_

_Benedict Cumberbatch. Now that you have enough information, could I have my ball back? – JW_

_Is he a tennis player? – SH_

The groan of the mattress and the stomping of feet were audible now, but the door didn't open. He really had no idea who Benedict Cumberbatch was but he had seen John carefully wrap that ball in cellophane and keep it in the box. Hence, he had assumed it had some sentimental value. Hence, he hadn't bothered asking. Hence, he had taken it.

_No – JW_

_Then who is he? – SH_

_He is an actor. A very good one at that. Remember that movie we saw, Hawking? He was the guy who played Stephen Hawking. Where is my ball? – JW_

_Your continued use of the phrase gives me the feeling that you are employing some double entendre but that hypothesis is moot, given your current state. Anyways, how did you get him to sign *your ball*? – SH_

No reply. He had had enough fun out of this already, the gesture was to surprise John, not anger him. Sherlock got up and took a round thing gift wrapped in blue wrapping paper out of his skull and a small manila coloured envelope. He walked up the stairs, Timothy the skull staring at him, and knocked on the door, whispering John's name quietly.

John unlocked the door and didn't wait for Sherlock to open it, he went back and sat on his bed, his feet swinging on one side. Sherlock just stood there, taking all of John's room in, all the subtle changes – the current book that John was reading was Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, his sister's framed photo was kept on the desk face down indicating that he had fought with her, his poetry notebook was half open, probably from scribbling in late last night.

"Happy Anniversary, John." Sherlock gently kissed John's forehead and handed him the present. He made to leave but John held his coat and pulled him down for a quick peck on the lips. He had completely forgotten about this. He, John Watson, who women adored because he always remembered their birthdays and kiss-anniversaries and first-date-anniversaries and so on, had forgotten the one day that had made him truly happy. Perhaps, it spoke volumes of the comfort he felt around Sherlock, he didn't feel the need to validate their relationship just like he hadn't when they had kissed for the first time on the same day, a year ago. He wanted to make up for it by kissing Sherlock because he had never expected Sherlock to remember.

"I…forgot. I'm sor-" John mumbled apologetically and looked at his lap, the gift glinting in his eyes before his statement was cut off by another chaste kiss.

"Open it." It had his Benedict Cumberbatch signed ball. He and Harry had gone to watch a tennis match where John had seen Benedict. He had nothing to take an autograph on, except a tennis ball he had brought along, hoping to get it signed by Marat Safin, that he offered to Benedict as he gaped like a kid. He looked at Sherlock, incredulously.

"You are gifting me something that is mine…?" he snuggled closer to Sherlock anyways, putting his arms around the taller man's waist.

"I thought losing it and rediscovering is would surprise you. Isn't that what surprises are all about?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused and all the more adorable. John kissed him deep, this time using his tongue to taste Sherlock's mouth, breathing into him and running his fingers through his curly hair with a sigh. _This is why he found this man adorable._

Sherlock drew back and smiled, "So you did like it? Relationships are easier than people give them credit for. Anyways, open the card now. This is…personal." He was almost going red under the dim light coming from the window, his face shadowed by his wild hair and the gloomy weather outside.

John opened the card, it was expensive stationary. _Totally Sherlock, _he thought with a smile. Inside was a note, in blue fountain pen –

_Your letters rip open at the envelope's seam  
and shine with the twinkle of your tiny blue eyes,  
this is why my confessions of love are lost  
in a mottled vein across the midnight sky._

Sherlock's breath was lost in his lungs. He looked at John closely, trying to gauge his reaction. John was reading the poem again. And again. His mouth was slightly open. _So, this is what surprises are supposed to be like, _Sherlock thought.

"You wrote this? I didn't know you could write poetry…" John was slightly breathless.

"Yes, I did. It took me a long time to actually think what I wanted to write but when I wrote this down, it surprisingly came to me. This was written today morning, just before you woke up. Do you like it?" Sherlock asked and for once, he looked like a nervous child who was unsure about his exam results.

John pulled him closer and whispered in his ear, "I love it almost as much as I love you," and kissed Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's ears went deep scarlet at which John giggled and kissed him again.

John quickly took a pen off his desk and scribbled over the space above Sherlock's note, beginning the existing verse and making it a complete poem –

_Because there is a grape colored stain on your lips__  
that makes my mind wander off to the spring fields of Neruda  
and your conversations sit with crossed feet  
on a dark dervish's shoulder,  
I breathe once between your hundred words;_

"Happy Anniversary, Sherlock," John mumbled in Sherlock's of Form

And they sat like that, for hours, staring at how they completed each other, their breathing deep and quiet, like the streets of London that day.


End file.
